


Of All the Western Stars

by prodigy



Category: Gentleman Bastard Sequence - Lynch
Genre: M/M, Yuletide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-12-25
Updated: 2007-12-25
Packaged: 2017-10-05 13:00:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/41991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prodigy/pseuds/prodigy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The (ostensible) last days of Locke Lamora's life, spent with man-eating porpoises, Jean Tannen, and the Sea of Brass.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of All the Western Stars

**Author's Note:**

> Written for soundingsea in the Yuletide 2007 Challenge.

They sail until they find blue. Gray skies are Camorr and dead skin and the Gray King. Red-gold skies are red sails and red wine and red blood and the gold that changes hands for all of them in Tal Verrar, and that's the last thing they need to remember. They don't have to tell each other that; neither of them suggests putting in until they find a place where only the sea behind them reminds them that they've come from anywhere. (Or until they run out of supplies. They aren't _stupid_.) But when they find their blue, they put in to a sleepy port and restock and then turn their rudder out to face the Sea of Brass itself: the real yawning sea, not the frayed edges they've been clinging to.

 

"Something new, Locke?" repeats Jean a little grimly when they raise anchor, arms folded over one of the rails. Locke doesn't know why he's unhappy, but he can guess: Jean doesn't believe they're going to find their next shore, maybe. _He_ will. _They_ won't.

 

He doesn't have the heart to refute him. Even that would be too much bullshit for Locke Lamora.

 

***

 

Every morning Locke wakes up before Jean. He's an uneasy sleeper, and even with Jean close to waking up himself, he can slip off. Locke's always been light, and light-footed: and for all Jean's attempts to watch over him, Jean's a hearty sleeper and never notices him gone.

 

There've been plenty of reasons for Locke to get up in his life. Too many gods-damned things to do -- setting up a con's always been like taking care of a wailing infant. Next to the billion other things to do, sleep always curls up at the bottom of the priority ladder like a kicked dog. He's no stranger to the early morning, and he's seen the sunrise in Camorr enough times to be unimpressed by the pretty colors nowadays. It's a bloody light-show, is what it is: nothing like the Ghostlight. And anyway, he did get up that once with Sabetha just to look at it. It wasn't any fucking different.

 

But he likes being up with nothing to do but notice things, now. He's been trained to notice things as they pertain to some job or another, or the newest joint he might have to pull something in. Now he's got lots of time to be pointless.

 

Sea-foam doesn't glint in early-morning sunlight. The swarms of mackerel churn the most near the surface before the sun's fully up and the gulls are after them. Sails are near-translucent in first light, and he can trace the skinny outline of his hand through them and memorize the ridges and lines. Things are different when he doesn't have a job to do.

 

Before day breaks fully Jean's always up too, of course. He doesn't look scared or worried after the first night or two, but Locke can tell finding him is the first thing he does when he wakes up. "I remember when you were a lazy, sorry little self-pitying son of a bitch," Jean remarks, standing next to him by the rail.

 

"Yeah, me too." Locke grins, rubbing one of his eyes.

 

"I wonder what happened to that." Jean's hand comes to rest companionably on his shoulder. The rough pad of his thumb grazes over a hole in Locke's shirt, the bare skin of his collarbone, and Locke flinches involuntarily at the feeling. _ It's only Jean_, he tells himself vaguely, as if he's scared. But he has too much time now, and things are different.

 

***

 

The next time porpoises follow the ship Locke finishes up his work with the jib sheet fast enough to race back and watch them. "What are you, fucking nine years old?" Jean yells cheerfully back at him as he climbs up over the the rail. Locke ignores him and leans over to count the rubbery-skinned fishes: nine, as usual. This group's been following them for just over two days, he reckons. Why _ do_ porpoises follow ships, anyway? Leavings, food, castaways? Curiosity?

 

"They're probably man-eating," Jean answers behind him, leaving him to wonder how he figured out what he was thinking. Of course, there aren't many things someone can stare thoughtfully at porpoises and ponder. It wasn't really a hard guessing game.

 

Locke shakes his head. "Bullshit. What are they, six feet long? Just look at those smiles. Could those faces eat anyone? Well, aside from the one with the sour look. I'm not so sure about him."

 

"I think it's deformed."

 

"Shut up, Tannen. It doesn't like us. I think I'm going to name it Caldris."

 

Jean sidles up next to him, as much as someone Jean's size can sidle. He probably can by normal standards. It's just way too easy to notice someone who towers over you, especially if you're Locke and are used to people towering over you generally meaning bad things for your health and skeletal integrity. "Man-eating."

 

"Lies."

 

"Why don't we tip you over and check, then?" Jean smirks and before Locke can shoot back another reply, grabs him by the collar and hoists him up while he yells and flails ineffectively, kicking Jean in the chest a few times. For a few seconds he gets a _very unobstructed_ view of the friendly-looking blue porpoises before Jean has the mercy to let him down again.

 

He punches Jean in the chest again for good measure. "I don't know why I put up with you. You know, on the bright side, I won't have to for much longer!"

 

Too late Locke remembers that they aren't always the same, that there _are_ things that aren't funny to both of them, but Jean's already staring out at the water by then. And there's no such thing as unsaying.

 

***

 

That night they drop anchor and drink their first and second bottles of Camorri red, a wine which tends to give Locke a headache in the morning if he drinks it too fast and come out the wrong way if he drinks too much of it. Tonight he does neither; he's had plenty of nasty hangovers in his life and doesn't care to repeat the experience. The last week or so of his life might not be productive, but it's definitely not going to be hungover.

 

Jean doesn't take the same care; he doesn't have to, not being the runty specimen of humanity that Locke is. While Locke chews his way through another tin of salted biscuits Jean takes another swig from the second bottle. The sky's gone dusky rouge-pink, but it isn't red.

 

"Have you ever wondered why the sky turns colors out here?" the ex-Thorn of Camorr asks idly, lying back with his head on his arms.

 

Jean snorts. "No," he says, putting an end to yet another one of Locke's have-you-wondered lines of questioning. Locke's discovered that these lines tend to end rather quickly and in similar fashions when put to Jean, but it's always worth another shot. Sort of. Possibly he's just bored.

 

When they do go to sleep, though, it's not so much a formal bedtime as a gradual dozing-off. Locke hears Jean snoring and is of half a mind to wake him up and make fun of him, but decides against it. He just sits up and watches him until he gets bored of it, and then tugs up the collar of his coat a bit and closes his eyes too. It should be a restful night.

 

But it's cold. It must be some effect of the wine: that's got to be the reason when temperatures are still nearly tropical where they're sailing. Locke shivers and dips his head so his shaggy dark hair covers more of his face. He really shouldn't be this gods-damned cold.

 

Well, he's not _that_ cold, really. He's exaggerating for the sake of self-pity (a noble activity which he's employed many a time to enhance some story or another). But he's starting to worry now. It's been that way for a couple days now: every twinge, every tightening, every dizziness could be it for him. Every one. He's fucking paranoid, is what he is. It's ridiculous. There might not even be anything wrong with him.

 

He folds his arms a little tighter over his chest and waits for the cold to go away.

 

Eventually: "Jean?"

 

Jean wakes up right away. For all he's slept like a rock through Locke getting up early and checking the sails and the anchor, his own name might as well be a canary screeching in his ear. "If you've got another question about the sky, I may have to pitch you overboard."

 

"No." Locke's next few words get stuck in his throat. It takes a little while to loosen up enough to let them out. "Jean, I -- I think I'm actually feeling unnaturally cold."

 

His hands are on his shoulders immediately, pulling them both up to an awkward sitting position -- gripping hard enough that Locke can picture bruise-handprints on his collarbone if Jean doesn't let up soon. "You have to be gods-damned kidding me, Locke," Jean says, staring at him, his pale complexion looking even paler. Or maybe that's only wishful thinking. Locke's never known Jean to pale that much in fright. "Locke. This is some kind of joke, isn't it? I fucking hate your jokes."

 

"I'm afraid it's not. If you don't mind, I'd like to have circulation in my arms in my last few minutes of life." Locke rubs his right shoulder and glares a little balefully once Jean lets go. "Thanks. You know, I could just be _cold_. It's a little-known but governmentally verified phenomenon that occasionally happens in Emberlain and to drunken Camorri -- " The last word is punctuated by a shiver and they're both dead quiet for a while.

 

Jean wraps an arm around him and Locke doesn't object, huddling a little next to him for warmth. He's been sure he was going to die a lot of other times in his life. He's got to be used to it by now -- he doesn't need coddling. Honestly, he doesn't. Jean's saying something, "Do you need -- at least I can make it --"

 

"Shut up, Jean, I'd rather be awake. Just stay here and let me bitch at you." At that Jean laughs, but the laugh's brittle and stretched out on tenterhooks. Locke doesn't dare risk it by saying anything else.

 

After a while Jean wraps his other arm around him too and they're sitting up against the mast, looking for all the world like some scene from the end of one of those ridiculous war tragedies they used to show in Camorr. Locke waits for Jean to make some comment to that effect. Jean doesn't, but he still feels ridiculous and wonders if Jean does too. He's never curled up quite this close to anyone before, he's pretty sure. It probably looks pretty fucking sentimental.

_I could be dying_, Locke thinks defensively, staring at the floor. _I'm allowed_. He suppresses another shiver and rests his cheek against Jean's shoulder, and grips the fabric of Jean's shirt when he runs one of his rough, too-precise hands through Locke's hair.

 

Jean's heart is beating fast, and his skin is warm. He concentrates on this and starts counting heartbeats to keep himself awake, murmuring numbers under his breath while Jean shifts position and grips him tighter.

 

They both drift off to sleep before morning, much to their dismay. But they both do wake up.

 

***

 

"You gods-damned little shit."

 

"I _told_ you I could've just been cold. I bloody told you." Locke starts laughing under his breath, still dizzy with sleep and surprise -- when Jean lets go of him and shoves him he doesn't bother to resist. When Jean shoves him again he topples forward and flops back again onto Jean's lap, staring up at him defiantly. "That's what you get for worrying about me so much, Tannen. You near give yourself a heart attack and I'm still here to give you lip in the morning."

 

Jean glares at him, but without much sincerity. "I repeat my earlier sentiment."

 

"Well, I know _I_ was calm." He's hardly surprised when Jean cuffs him, and pulls him up into another tight hug; _it could still happen any moment, you know_ says a nasty little voice somewhere behind his temple. He clamps a lid on it and hugs Jean even harder. His heart isn't so fast now, but he's still warm and Locke's face is pressed up next to the skin of his neck again. Locke shivers again. He isn't cold.

 

"Locke?" Jean pulls away a little, looking at him with that same worry. Stupid, endearing Jean-worry. Locke's getting awfully sick of it, so without thinking about what he's doing he lays a hand on one side of Jean's face to make him stop. Well, he stops. Jean-confusion now, Locke thinks, feeling about as much at a loss for what to do as Jean looks.

 

Fuck. He's dying. Or possibly he isn't. He's never felt so drunk on his continued survival. Maybe drunk enough to brush a stray hair away from Jean's forehead and loop his arms around his neck and pull him down to press his mouth to his -- which he's been tempted to do for ten minutes, or five days, depending on who you ask. But Jean won't react, he knows, not for a few seconds while he tries to process what Locke's doing -- and then he'll shove him away and ask him what the hell he _ is_ doing. And then it'll be over. But he'll have those few seconds.

 

He does it anyway. Jean's mouth is bigger than a girl's, he notices vaguely. Their lips are dry. And it actually takes seven seconds before Jean reacts: and by pushing more into the kiss and threading his fingers through Locke's hair, at that, which is how Locke knows it is a fever dream he's clearly about to wake up from in about ten seconds. He opens his eyes and blinks furiously to wake himself up, which doesn't work, oddly enough. Strange world out in these parts.

 

Jean pulls away for a moment and blinks at him too, once. "I'm never going to understand you, Lamora," he says, his hand leaving a trace of electricity as he traces down Locke's cheekbone and neck and to the top lace of his shirt. "Still cold?"

 

"No." Locke grins at him, wondering if any of the 98342 tons of nervousness piling in his stomach are starting to show through yet. Or the growing warmth in his belly and the pit of his chest. "And of course you're not going to understand me, I'm a diabolical wunderkind. A criminal genius. An infernal prodigmmmf." He doesn't exactly blame Jean for muffling him at this point, as he's fairly certain the tangent he was on was one hundred percent top-quality horseshit.

 

They fuck up a lot when they're dealing with each other's clothing, Jean more than Locke, he's proud to say (or will be proud to say, once he's in any state to say anything). A few times Jean stops and looks at him, to ask if it's all right, but Locke manages to signal somehow with the few remaining functioning parts of his brain that if he was going to say _no_ it would've happened, say, before he _started_ anything. And eventually Jean's hands are rough on his skin again; Locke's feeling about as awkward as he ever did when he was fourteen, a problem which he solves by kissing him again. Always the best solution to things. At least it was when he was a teenager, he thinks, he can never be quite sure -- and oh gods.

 

Locke braces his feet against the deck and tries to stop himself from kicking something very hard. But Jean's breath is in the hollow of his collarbone and Jean's hand is clasped just hard enough to make him want to ask Jean to stop and not really mean it; and hell, oh, bloody hell, he must look like an idiot. He closes his eyes and clenches his hands somewhere in the pile of clothing and lets the warmth build.

 

When it builds enough and breaks, into something that's just too much for him to stand, he lets out a muffled "_Fuck_" and jerks his head back -- as it happens to be, straight into the mast with a loud bonk. Then louder: " _Fuck_! Ow!"

 

"Locke? What the hell -- are you all right?" Jean lets go of him and lets him sit up rubbing his head, staring like he's a giant fish that's just flopped onto deck. "By the Thirteenth, that was loud."

 

"Me?" Locke rubs his head, still out of breath. The last pinpricks are still fading away, though the newly throbbing pain in his head is helping.

 

Jean's still staring at him. "No, uh, you nearly cracking your skull open on the mast. You know, that was possibly the worst timing you've ever had, Locke." He's grinning and twitching a little -- obviously holding back laughter. Asshole.

 

Locke snorts and sits up, closing his eyes for a moment to get his head back on straight. "Maybe. I think it would've been worse if it was about ten seconds prior, myself."

 

They both sit there for a while until Locke stops reeling -- he couldn't say if Jean's reeling as much, personally, though he figures so from his lack of silence. Or possibly he's just reflecting. Or wondering where in the past week they'd both completely lost their minds. One of those things. Eventually Jean clears his throat and starts a little hesitantly, "Did I --"

 

"You've got a remarkable knack for it." Locke doesn't open his eyes. "I'll have to ask you where you got it from sometime."

 

"Oh." Jean falls silent for a while; Locke pictures him sitting there looking awkwardly at his hands, which makes him smile. "Hey, did you know --"

 

"Absolutely no clue before now." Possibly not the most dashing conquest of the Thorn of Camorr, Locke reflects. It's still surprisingly satisfying. "Really. I think we might be onto something, though."

 

"I'm inclined to agree. Funny how that happens with us."

 

"Hysterical."

 

***

 

They sail until they find sand. Or something that looks like sand, at least, and trees. Locke can't attest to the reliability of his spyglass, so he leans out a little further to look before he shouts "Jean!" and his friend comes running to yank the spyglass away and have a look himself. Locke's too busy staring to steal it back.

 

"Something new," he mutters, and leans out even more to look at the white sand and the green blur above it. Possibly far enough to risk falling to the man-eating porpoises that still insist on dogging their ship. But he doesn't really care, and he doesn't look back over his shoulder for a long while, not even when Jean tries to get his attention.

 

They're too far away for Tal Verrar to touch them now. Too far even for the Bondsmagi, perhaps. It's as good a place to die as any.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks as usual to corialis and Relia, my favorite Yuletiding lovelies, and merry holidays to them both.


End file.
